Two hours later, she walked back through her own front door.
He was sitting on the living room couch.
Something in his posture was different from the self-assured man who had left that morning with his collar sharp and his plans intact.
He looked like someone who had arrived somewhere and found the version of himself he expected to be reflected there — and had not liked what he saw.
She set her bag on the chair near the door.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” he asked, his voice flat.
“Very much,” she said.
He looked at his phone for a moment. Then at her.
“I didn’t go,” he said.
She waited.
“Carolina texted when I was already on the way.” He paused. “I turned around.”
She kept her expression neutral.
“I’ve been sitting here thinking,” he continued. He rubbed his face with both hands in the slow, heavy way people do when they are not sure how to begin. “About what I was doing. Where I was going.”
The room was quiet.
